


futile devices

by hotmesslewis



Category: Lewis and Clark
Genre: this is not my best work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 04:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11960118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotmesslewis/pseuds/hotmesslewis
Summary: Meriwether Lewis's and William Clark's first night together.





	futile devices

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Sufjan Stevens's "Futile Devices" (of how many fics out there is that true) (probably a bunch) (on a related note: sometimes writing fic based on songs is HARD you guys like how can you write something that's not just the song beat for beat the answer is you can't) (run-on sentences are a stylistic choice) (so is the excessive use of parentheticals)

Lieutenant William Clark and young Ensign Meriwether Lewis had talked late into the night, until Lewis had finally fallen into a deep, if somewhat restless, sleep on the ground beside Clark’s pallet, in Clark’s tent. So late was the hour and so tired the young man that he didn’t even remove his boots before fading out on the hard-packed dirt, never mind making it back to his own tent.

Clark had not yet snuffed out the guttering candle burning low on the ground, but let the flame flicker, watching, learning the face of his new young friend.

Clark was fascinated by him.

In a way he’d never quite been fascinated by anyone before.

Of course, he had been fascinated by women, or so he had claimed (it was a sure way to earn their affections and coy attentions), but never had he felt anything quite like this for them. And there were many men of who he was fond, and in whose company he took great pleasure. Although he might not have scores of friends and admirers and he may not yet have been the favorite son of his well-known family, Clark considered himself at least well-liked by most of his friends and peers, and he generally liked them well enough in return.

But Lewis was different. He was something that demanded to be more than merely liked, something that demanded to be respected or loathed, but settled for nothing in between the two.

Lewis burned like the stars, both hot and cold all at once. Ever-present and irrepressible and infectious. 

Part of it was undoubtedly the man’s appearance, strange and charm all it once. At the age of twenty-one, he still toed the line between boyhood and manhood, his cheeks still full and ruddy, his sandy brown hair long, with wild waves framing his face, the rest pulled back in a tight queue. In the face he was downright pretty, with wide eyes of an indeterminate color (were they blue? Green? Gray? Clark was curious to know but couldn’t bring himself to look long enough to find out) and his small, almost feminine mouth. 

But there was more to his odd appeal than merely that. It was peculiar, considering to most people Lewis gave the impression of being a quiet, somewhat retiring man. But anyone who took the time to know him soon found out that this impression was hardly accurate—tonight Lewis had held Clark captive and laughing as he recounted the story of the conflict with his superior officer that earned him his transfer to this new camp. He seemed full of stories, brag and bravado, and with his fine, clear voice, his homey accent, it was a pleasure to listen to him. Clark found himself almost disappointed Lewis had fallen asleep while he was still so wide awake. But at the same time, he wouldn’t have begrudged this man his rest for anything in the world, no matter how much more he wanted to hear and see and just be with him.

Lewis was literature, and never had Clark wanted more to be a learned man.

Suddenly Lewis awakened with a start and a gasp. Groggily, he looked around himself, trying to place this strange tent in the dim candlelight, to account for his sleeping on the ground. He blinked sleepily when he recognized Clark, and rolled over on his side to face the man. Clark colored at having been caught watching Lewis.

“Hi,” Lewis said softly.

“Hi.”

“Did I . . . did I fall asleep here, in your quarters?” Lewis was nonplussed.

“Yes, you did.”

Lewis linked his fingers together and stretched his arms in front of him. “I’m sorry,” he said with a yawn.

“ ‘s alright.” Clark shifted on his cot, laying now on his stomach and leaning his chin on his forearm to talk to his friend.

Lewis glanced up to the peak of the tent. “Is it all right if I stay tonight?” he asked in a whisper, as if he were scared to hear the answer.

But Clark could deny him nothing. “ ‘Course it is.”

“Thanks.”

There were a few minutes of silence, until Lewis spoke up into the near-darkness again. “I had a dream.”

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

“No. I don’t think so. I—I don’t know.”

“Oh. Do you . . . do you want to talk about it?” Clark would gladly listen.

“No, ‘s okay. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?”

“For . . . I don’t know. Nothing. Thank you. I’m sorry.”

Lewis went quiet again, and Clark realized, desperately, as the flame of the candle finally burned itself out, that he was coming to love the man.


End file.
